


Try To Prove Me Wrong

by mothteeth



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-27 02:31:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18295049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothteeth/pseuds/mothteeth
Summary: Sometimes you're too stubborn for your own good, especially when you're sick. Stan does his best to make sure you don't end up hurting yourself.





	Try To Prove Me Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> I was really sick when I wrote this. Irl no one can make me do anything. Fiction is magical.

You know you’re in trouble when you open your eyes first thing in the morning. You can barely breathe through your nose, your throat feels like you’ve swallowed a cup of ground glass, and the first thing you do when you sit up is cough. Nonetheless, there are things that need to get done, so you get up to start your day. Bad idea. You end up doubled over with a fit of loud, hacking coughing. You stand there, hands still on your knees for a moment just trying to catch your breath. When you can breathe again, the first thing you do is curse under your breath. You don’t have time for this. 

When you straighten back up, you’re face to face (more like face to chest but who cares) with Stan. You curse your inability to do anything quietly. “You okay, kid?” he asks. 

“I’m fine,” is what you try to say, but what comes out instead is a croak of “fine” because the “I’m” is completely lost. You end up in another long coughing fit, hard enough to make you gag. You hold up one hand - the one that isn’t currently supporting you on your knee - to tell him to hold on just a second. When you look up again, his brow is arched. “As I was saying,” your voice is creaky, but almost sort of your voice, “I’m fine.”

“You sound it,” is his very very sarcastic reply. You wave him off before going over to the dresser to get your clothes. You pull out your clothes and go to shower. Hopefully it’ll get you to breathe through your nose again. Maybe. If you’re lucky. 

In the shower you nearly knock yourself out hitting your head on the shower wall while coughing. Stan knocks on the door to the bathroom, “You still alive in there?” 

“Yes!” you manage to squeak out above the sound of the water running. You’re fine. It’s really warm, and you keep coughing and sniffling, but you’re fine. 

When you’re finally dressed, you go out into the house to get things done. The kitchen needs to be cleaned, laundry needs to be done, dishes need to be washed. Any errands you have to run will probably have to wait, unfortunately, since you don’t want to get anyone else sick. Not that you’re actually sick but you’re a little sick. Sick enough to maybe give it to someone else. Sick enough to stay home, at least. 

You only get half a load of laundry in the washer before you end up doubled over again in a fit of coughing. It’s almost enough to take you off your feet. You tap your chest when it’s over and make some comment to yourself about how great you’re doing. You don’t handle being sick well. You finish loading the washer and start it up before making your way to the kitchen. 

You clear the table in short order, and wipe it down. Next is the counter. Then you have the massive pile of dishes to work through. You fill the sink with soapy water and get to work. Unfortunately, you are struck with another bout of coughing while your hands are covered in soap. Your hands fly up to cover your mouth and soap suds flick off your fingers into your eyes and mouth. You stand there, sputtering and cursing as you try to rinse the soap out of your eyes and spit the taste out of your mouth while still coughing. “Alright, that’s enough of that. Back to bed with you,” Stan appears out of nowhere to take your arm to lead you back to bed. Okay, maybe he came in while you were temporarily blinded, but it’s sudden to you either way. You try to pull back. “Stan, I’ve got stuff to do. I’m fine. Not throwing up, and no fever. Therefore, fine,” you insist, your voice croaky and low. He puts his hand up to your forehead. 

“No fever, huh?” he says, giving you his “I don’t believe you for a second and now I’m going to prove you wrong” looks. 

“No fever.” 

“So if you did have a fever, you’d go back to bed?” Your eyes narrow, suspicious about the clarification. Might as well see where this is going. 

“Yes. But, as I said, I don’t have a fever.” You disentangle your arm and get back to doing dishes. 

It only takes Stan a couple minutes to find the thermometer, an old mercury one. He rinses it off, shakes it, and holds it up to you, a clear instruction: “Put your money where your mouth is, kid.” You open your mouth to protest, but he sticks the thermometer under your tongue before you can get a word in. Begrudgingly, you close your mouth. Well, as best you can. You have to open it a little to breathe, since you can’t breathe through your nose still. You lean on the counter for a moment or two before Stan takes the thermometer back, examining it carefully. “What was that about no fever?” he asks, barely concealing a smirk. 

“What? Give me that!” you take the thermometer. Sure enough, it's just above the hundred degree mark. Definitely a fever. Damn. “I can’t go back to bed, I have laundry in the washer.” You know it’s futile, but you have to try. 

“Taken care of,” is his reply. “You said you’d go back to bed if you had a fever, and you have a fever.” 

“Stan, really, I’m o-” You’re interrupted by a fit of coughing. You have to hold onto the counter to stay on your feet. It hurts to breathe when you’re done. You tap your chest once you’re finished. “See, I’m fine.” Stan gives you a disapproving look. “Yeah, alright, I’ll go to bed,” you finally concede. 

You trudge up the stairs in defeat, but the thought of going back to bed is a nice one. You’re tired and your throat hurts and honestly a day of reading in bed doesn’t sound so bad. You do get a little anxious about the stuff you have to get done, but, you suppose it can wait until tomorrow. You got the bulk of it done, anyway. You are a bit upset, though. You had hoped to be able to spend some time with Stan, but that’s not happening now; not with you exiled to bed. You settle in under the covers, picking up your book from the nightstand and getting comfortable. You’re going to be here for a while. 

Not even twenty minutes later, Stan comes in with a steaming mug of tea. “Here. This’ll help your throat,” he tells you as he hands it to you. You take a sip, and, despite the fact that it’s very hot, it does feel good when you swallow. Honey and lemon. Good for what ails ya. You croak out your thanks and set it on the nightstand. You wait for him to leave, but instead he walks to his side of the bed, lifting up the covers and settling in next to you. 

“What are you doing? I’m going to get you sick,” you tell him sternly. Well, as sternly as you can when you’re almost cut off at the end by loud, hacking coughing. 

“Me? Nope. I don’t get sick, so scoot over a little.” He nudges you aside. You don’t argue. Instead, you snuggle up into his side, relishing the warmth of him. When did you get so cold? He puts his arm around you, pulling you close to him.

Stan picks up your book. “Do you mind?” 

“I mean, I was going to read that, but I guess not,” you answer. You can take a nap. You’re definitely tired enough to. 

“Thanks,” he says, opening the front cover. He starts to read it to you out loud. Maybe a cheap horror novel isn’t the best for that, but his rough voice is soothing, especially when you can feel the vibrations in his chest. You want to keep listening, but you can feel your eyelids getting heavy. Each blink is a little bit longer than the last. After one particularly long one, you realize you’re losing the fight and allow yourself to doze off, warm and cozy. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A few days after you get better, you find yourself in the kitchen, cleaning up. You go to pull something out of the cabinet, when the thermometer rolls out of its usual (precarious) spot. You pick it up to put it back, but you notice something looks a little off about it. You look a little closer. Sure enough, it reads a little over a hundred degrees. It doesn’t actually work. Ooh when you get your hands on him. “Stanley!” you shout. 

“You can’t prove anything!” he yells in return before you hear what sounds like an escape. You let a smile slip, knowing he can’t see. Knucklehead.


End file.
